THE SINGING MASONS AT CROCUSBURG.
The singing masonsBuilding roofs of gold.—Shakespeare.
The singing masonsBuilding roofs of gold.—Shakespeare.
The singing masonsBuilding roofs of gold.—Shakespeare.
The singing masons
Building roofs of gold.—Shakespeare.
Pilgrim! within the hollow of this oakOnce hummed and toiled a commonwealth of bees.And in all honeydom there were no folk,Of swifter wing or sharper sting than these.The waxen fragments, round the fountain strown,With more than dædal artifice ywrought,Once formed the structures of their fragrant town,Which hung embosomed in this oaken grot.Its name was Crocusburg. ’Twas built, they say,By queen Iophile, whose early homeWas in a mountain cleft of Attica.She with her bees was often wont to roamThe Ægean isles, in quest of flowery prey;And so it fell one summer afternoon,As she led thence her train, each wing and thighClogged with the sweets of many an island-bloom,Just off Mount Sunium’s marble forehead high,A sudden rain-gust blew them all awryA thousand leagues into the western sky.Beneath their flight, a waste of surges wild,Shoreless and gray the vast Atlantic rolled;And o’er its waves no Tyrian galley toiled,Whereon they might their gauzy pinions fold.But they escaped, a saffron-scented wind,Which blew from meads below the horizon’s rim,Into this blossom-tessellated valeThey swiftly traced, a thin aerial clueBy their keen muzzles in the trackless blueOf heaven detected, and they builded hereA honey mart, that grew without a peer.Its cells and waxen magazines ran o’erWith brimful floods of lucent yellow dew,The choicest sweets of every gold-eyed flower,That on the earth’s green bosom ever grew.Whether its leaves and scented buds expand,At morn and eve by spicy breezes fanned,Above the tropics’ hot volcanic mould,O’er sunless magazines of gems and gold;Or nature weaves it with less gaudy dyes,In moister looms, upon a colder shore—Each flower-clad vale beneath the purple skiesIts tribute yielded to their fragrant store.
Pilgrim! within the hollow of this oakOnce hummed and toiled a commonwealth of bees.And in all honeydom there were no folk,Of swifter wing or sharper sting than these.The waxen fragments, round the fountain strown,With more than dædal artifice ywrought,Once formed the structures of their fragrant town,Which hung embosomed in this oaken grot.Its name was Crocusburg. ’Twas built, they say,By queen Iophile, whose early homeWas in a mountain cleft of Attica.She with her bees was often wont to roamThe Ægean isles, in quest of flowery prey;And so it fell one summer afternoon,As she led thence her train, each wing and thighClogged with the sweets of many an island-bloom,Just off Mount Sunium’s marble forehead high,A sudden rain-gust blew them all awryA thousand leagues into the western sky.Beneath their flight, a waste of surges wild,Shoreless and gray the vast Atlantic rolled;And o’er its waves no Tyrian galley toiled,Whereon they might their gauzy pinions fold.But they escaped, a saffron-scented wind,Which blew from meads below the horizon’s rim,Into this blossom-tessellated valeThey swiftly traced, a thin aerial clueBy their keen muzzles in the trackless blueOf heaven detected, and they builded hereA honey mart, that grew without a peer.Its cells and waxen magazines ran o’erWith brimful floods of lucent yellow dew,The choicest sweets of every gold-eyed flower,That on the earth’s green bosom ever grew.Whether its leaves and scented buds expand,At morn and eve by spicy breezes fanned,Above the tropics’ hot volcanic mould,O’er sunless magazines of gems and gold;Or nature weaves it with less gaudy dyes,In moister looms, upon a colder shore—Each flower-clad vale beneath the purple skiesIts tribute yielded to their fragrant store.
Pilgrim! within the hollow of this oakOnce hummed and toiled a commonwealth of bees.And in all honeydom there were no folk,Of swifter wing or sharper sting than these.The waxen fragments, round the fountain strown,With more than dædal artifice ywrought,Once formed the structures of their fragrant town,Which hung embosomed in this oaken grot.Its name was Crocusburg. ’Twas built, they say,By queen Iophile, whose early homeWas in a mountain cleft of Attica.She with her bees was often wont to roamThe Ægean isles, in quest of flowery prey;And so it fell one summer afternoon,As she led thence her train, each wing and thighClogged with the sweets of many an island-bloom,Just off Mount Sunium’s marble forehead high,A sudden rain-gust blew them all awryA thousand leagues into the western sky.Beneath their flight, a waste of surges wild,Shoreless and gray the vast Atlantic rolled;And o’er its waves no Tyrian galley toiled,Whereon they might their gauzy pinions fold.But they escaped, a saffron-scented wind,Which blew from meads below the horizon’s rim,Into this blossom-tessellated valeThey swiftly traced, a thin aerial clueBy their keen muzzles in the trackless blueOf heaven detected, and they builded hereA honey mart, that grew without a peer.Its cells and waxen magazines ran o’erWith brimful floods of lucent yellow dew,The choicest sweets of every gold-eyed flower,That on the earth’s green bosom ever grew.Whether its leaves and scented buds expand,At morn and eve by spicy breezes fanned,Above the tropics’ hot volcanic mould,O’er sunless magazines of gems and gold;Or nature weaves it with less gaudy dyes,In moister looms, upon a colder shore—Each flower-clad vale beneath the purple skiesIts tribute yielded to their fragrant store.
Pilgrim! within the hollow of this oak
Once hummed and toiled a commonwealth of bees.
And in all honeydom there were no folk,
Of swifter wing or sharper sting than these.
The waxen fragments, round the fountain strown,
With more than dædal artifice ywrought,
Once formed the structures of their fragrant town,
Which hung embosomed in this oaken grot.
Its name was Crocusburg. ’Twas built, they say,
By queen Iophile, whose early home
Was in a mountain cleft of Attica.
She with her bees was often wont to roam
The Ægean isles, in quest of flowery prey;
And so it fell one summer afternoon,
As she led thence her train, each wing and thigh
Clogged with the sweets of many an island-bloom,
Just off Mount Sunium’s marble forehead high,
A sudden rain-gust blew them all awry
A thousand leagues into the western sky.
Beneath their flight, a waste of surges wild,
Shoreless and gray the vast Atlantic rolled;
And o’er its waves no Tyrian galley toiled,
Whereon they might their gauzy pinions fold.
But they escaped, a saffron-scented wind,
Which blew from meads below the horizon’s rim,
Into this blossom-tessellated vale
They swiftly traced, a thin aerial clue
By their keen muzzles in the trackless blue
Of heaven detected, and they builded here
A honey mart, that grew without a peer.
Its cells and waxen magazines ran o’er
With brimful floods of lucent yellow dew,
The choicest sweets of every gold-eyed flower,
That on the earth’s green bosom ever grew.
Whether its leaves and scented buds expand,
At morn and eve by spicy breezes fanned,
Above the tropics’ hot volcanic mould,
O’er sunless magazines of gems and gold;
Or nature weaves it with less gaudy dyes,
In moister looms, upon a colder shore—
Each flower-clad vale beneath the purple skies
Its tribute yielded to their fragrant store.